The body is the soul’s poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o’ercome When no force else can get the masterdom.
I’ll write, because I’ll give – You critics means to live; For should I not supply – The cause, the effect would die.
Let’s live with that small pittance which we have; Who covets more is evermore a slave.
Welcome, maids of honor, You doe bring In the spring, And wait upon her.
The readiness of doing doth expresse No other but the doer’s willingnesse.
Art quickens nature; care will make a face; Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
When one is past, another care we have; Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drown’d, where late they danc’d before.
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse; Satan o’ercomes none but by willingnesse.
Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table’s merriment.
Hell is no other but a soundlesse pit, Where no one beame of comfort peeps in it.
Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
Who after his transgression doth repent, Is halfe, or altogether, innocent.
Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on; Back-turning slackens resolution.
He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
A careless shoe string, in whose tie I see a wilde civility.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart, the very eyes of me, And hast command of every part to live and die for thee.